Mist Over the Water

TWENTY

The morning was chilly, and it was as yet too early for any of the food stalls to be serving. A few workmen were queuing up waiting for the abbey gates to open. The men were huddled inside their heavy garments, preoccupied and not interested in a young woman pacing the streets. I was alone with my thoughts.

I crossed the marketplace and headed off to the east, towards the rising sun, keeping level with the high wall that bordered the abbey on its north side. I passed a gatehouse and noticed a clutch of low buildings beside it. This gate, too, was still fast closed. I imagined that somewhere within the monks were at prayer, perhaps seeking strength for the vagaries of the day ahead.

It was very quiet. There was no wind and, although heavy clouds were massing in the western sky, as yet it was fine. The pale sun made the green grass glow. I walked on, presently coming to a meadow that sloped gently down to the water. There was a stand of trees over to the left, and I noticed absently that the water level reached well up their trunks.

There was a ruined building behind me — it looked as if it had once been a cow byre — and I went to sit on a low wall, lifting my feet out of the wet grass and resting them on a stone. I put my elbows on my knees and dropped my chin in my hands. Then I gave myself up to the whirl of thoughts, impressions and recent memories flying around inside my head.

She did not know he was there until he was standing just behind her. He had been watching her for some time, impressed by her utter stillness and wondering what she was doing out there all by herself. He had approached slowly, expecting that at any moment she would hear him and spin round. He only saw the tears on her face when he was close enough to touch her.

He said the first thing that came into his head: ‘What’s the matter?’

She did not turn; it seemed she knew who he was without looking. ‘I’ve just been told something so sad,’ she said.

‘Ah.’ He sat down beside her on her wall. ‘Is there anything you can do to help?’

‘No, I don’t think there is. It’s to do with something two people did here on the island nineteen years ago. They are still living with the consequences — someone else is as well — and nothing’s going to change what’s happened.’

‘I see.’ This, then, seemed to be nothing to do with the boy in the abbey. To be sure, he said, ‘It concerns friends of yours?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. Well, one of them’s actually my aunt. The other two are my friend’s mother and father, only up until yesterday he thought he was his uncle.’

He worked out what she meant. She could not be speaking of the pale youth, and he was surprised at the relief that flooded through him. He had found her, by the purest chance, and it seemed they had been given an opportunity to talk of matters far removed from the business that had brought him to Ely. That still must be resolved, and he knew it. He knew, too, that soon he would have to ask her why she had been in the abbey and what her interest was in the pale youth. For now, she was distressed because of something that had nothing to do with him. Perhaps he could comfort her. He intended to enjoy this moment out of time to the full.

He leaned closer to her. He caught her scent — she smelled of rosemary and lavender, among other things, and he guessed she was a healer. The scent awoke memories of how it had felt to kiss her.

‘I’m sorry you are sad,’ he said softly. He put his arm around her and she snuggled against him. ‘Would it help to talk about it?’

‘No,’ she replied, then immediately added, ‘That was rude and I apologize. I know you’re trying to be kind.’

I would always wish to be kind to you, he thought.

They sat close together, not speaking. Presently, he raised a hand and, gently cupping her face, turned her so that he could kiss her. She kissed him back.

After an embrace that had lasted quite a long time, he said, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Lassair.’

‘Do you live here on Ely?’

‘No.’

He did not ask her where she did live; he sensed she would not answer.

‘What are you called?’ she asked.

‘Rollo.’

‘And you don’t come from here either.’ It was a statement, not a question.

He said simply, ‘No. I was born a long way away.’

‘You sound foreign,’ she remarked. ‘You don’t talk like other people round here.’

He smiled. ‘I speak several languages. This is one of them.’

She reached up and ran a finger the length of the scar that bisected his eyebrow. She said softly, ‘Rollo.’ Then she grabbed hold of his face and kissed him with an intensity that took his breath away.

She was warm in his arms, her smooth hair soft under his hands. It was long — so long — since he had held a woman. She was arousing sensations and emotions in him which he had believed he had put aside. For now, anyway, when there was a job to be done.

But the job was as yet incomplete. Gently and reluctantly he broke away from her and, still holding hands, they sat for some moments, the silence broken only by their fast breathing that slowly returned to normal. Then he said, ‘The boy in the abbey; did you get inside specifically to try to see him?’

‘Yes.’ Her answer was instant and, if she regretted the intrusion of the real world, she gave no sign. Perhaps she too recognized that this was not the time to indulge whatever it was that had so suddenly sprung into existence between them.

He forced himself to concentrate. ‘Why?’

‘Because my cousin witnessed those four big men who guard him bundling him in through the gate. Then someone tried to kill him — my cousin, I mean — but they didn’t because they thought he had drowned, but he managed to hold his breath and evade them, only he managed to stick an eel gleeve in his foot and the wound went putrid. Then two other eel catchers dressed in cloaks exactly like my cousin’s were murdered, and we guessed the men were trying to get rid of Morcar — my cousin — because he’d witnessed them manhandling the boy.’

He digested the rush of words. Then: ‘So you thought you should help the pale boy in case he had been taken inside the abbey against his will?’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t only that. They had tried to kill my cousin, and there was always the possibility they’d make another attempt and succeed — well, they won’t now because he’s not here any more and he’s well hidden somewhere they won’t find him — and we thought it might help if we had some idea of what this was all about.’

Slowly, he nodded. ‘When you say we?’ he said, turning it into a question.

‘Sibert and me, mainly. He’s my friend who I told you about. The one who has just discovered that his uncle is his father.’

‘I see.’ He wanted to smile, for her life seemed full of tangles and he was enchanted by the way she had no hesitation in sharing them with him. Except, he noted, she had told him neither where her home was nor where she and her friend had hidden the cousin; in all likelihood the places were one and the same. He did not blame her for being careful. She might have opened her heart to him — he was still staggered by what was happening between them — but she was sufficiently cautious to watch her tongue where others were concerned. Since he intended to do the same, he was in no position to criticize.

He said, ‘Do you know who the pale boy is?’

She hesitated only for a moment. Then she said, ‘His name is Gewis. He’s the son of a carpenter called Edulf, who died four years ago, and a woman called Asfrior, who died the day before yesterday.’

The boy’s mother was dead. It was as he had thought. The woman knew the whole story, and, knowing he had closed in, they would not have risked letting her stay alive. The secret had died with her. Except that of course it hadn’t, for it was known to a select few of her own people. He knew it too. He was her enemy.

How much did Lassair know?

Knowledge such as this was dangerous. He knew then that he would protect her, whatever happened.

He said, carefully choosing his words, ‘He is someone of great importance, although he does not know it.’

‘He does, and I’d already guessed as much,’ she said. He detected a hint of irony. ‘People don’t normally make such a fuss about a carpenter’s son from a small fenland village.’ She turned to stare at him. Her eyes looked green in the bright light. ‘He has gone, Rollo. Whatever you, or they, want him to be a part of, he will not do it. I told him they killed his mother, and even if he hadn’t made up his mind before he did then.’

He sighed. ‘I had nothing to do with the death of his mother,’ he said. ‘It is true that the slaying of his father was the work of the faction to which I belong — ’ was that right? Did he belong with the king’s party? Just then he did not know — ‘but I was not involved. Four years ago I was a thousand and more miles away from eastern England.’

She nodded quickly. ‘I believe you.’ He was surprised at how much pleasure those three words gave him. ‘Why did your people kill Gewis’s father?’

He paused. Should he tell her? This was the most dangerous part of the secret, but then she knew so much already and he did not think she would rest until she had uncovered the whole story. ‘Because the blood of kings ran in his veins. He was of the bloodline of the House of Wessex, and from that house came Edward the Confessor, the last Wessex king. Many men who support the old regime want to see a Wessex king back on the throne of England.’

She did not speak for some time. She whispered, almost to herself, ‘My kinsmen fought and died for the old regime.’ Then aloud she said, ‘Gewis, too, must be of the bloodline.’

‘He is.’

‘He’s aware that he belongs to some ancient family, but does he know what an elevated one it was?’

‘No. Or, rather, he did not know yesterday, although I have reason to believe he was taken to see someone last evening who was in a position to enlighten him.’

She frowned. ‘He did see someone last night. He ran away from whoever it was, and he found his way to us.’ Her frown deepened. ‘I’m quite sure he didn’t mention the House of Wessex.’

Then, he thought, they probably didn’t tell him.

She was very quiet, and he knew she was thinking hard. Then she said, ‘Why is your faction so determined that the House of Wessex shall not rise again?’

He sighed, for the answer was complex. ‘The old kings made this country,’ he said, ‘but they had their time and now it is over. The Normans are not universally popular — ’ her snort of derision suggested she agreed — ‘but they are strong, and they will make England march according to their rules. They are fair, in their way, and they have the might to stamp out rebellion before it takes hold and tears the country in two. That is why they will not permit the existence of a figurehead out of the elder days to whom men could rally.’ She did not answer. He leaned closer and said, ‘Lassair, does anybody truly want another battle like Hastings?’

She winced, and he knew he had hit home. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Did you lose many of your kin?’

‘Yes.’

She could not have been born then, he thought, but no doubt the memory of the fallen was kept alive and vibrant by the family story tellers. Not that there was anything wrong with that; the living ought to sing the praises of their dead warriors, no matter on which side they had fought.

He waited to see if she would elaborate. Eventually, she sighed, but when finally she spoke it was not what he had expected. She said, ‘You can’t kill Gewis. He hasn’t done anything, and he doesn’t want to lead anybody, let alone some resurgent Wessex faction. He’s just not the type.’

‘He looks like his forebears,’ Rollo said. It had been the boy’s cream-coloured hair that had been his chief identifying feature.

‘He may well do,’ she retorted, ‘but that’s no reason to say he’ll agree to be a new Wessex king.’

Rollo sensed she was right. The boy might have the right blood in his veins, but that alone did not make him a leader of men. And, anyway, how could anybody promote him to such an exalted role when he had disappeared? He wondered where the boy had gone. Was he in the same place as her cousin Morcar? And was this place. .

He was struck by such a horrible thought that he felt a chill run through his body, and instinctively he clutched her closer to him. ‘What is it?’ she asked, and he knew from her voice that she had picked up his alarm.

He rested his chin on the top of her head. Her hair smelled sweet. He had known her such a short while, but already she was infinitely precious. . He realized he could not tell her what he had just thought. It was bad enough for him to know, and if he told her he did not know how she would react.

No. He would bear the responsibility. He would not let anything happen to her.

He hugged her close. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m cold — let’s go and find something hot to eat to warm us up.’

There were so many things I ought to have been worrying about and for which I should have been busy making plans but just then, walking along beside him in the watery sunshine, I could think of nothing but him. Rollo. His name was Rollo and he came from somewhere a thousand miles away. He was tough and strong — when I had leaned against him the muscles of his chest and shoulder had felt like iron — and when he’d kissed me and I’d responded, it had felt as if we had been doing it forever. I shall enjoy this day, I told myself, for I am with him and it may be the only time we shall have.

I don’t know why I thought that.

The workmen were now pouring through the abbey gates in a flood, and appetizing smells snaked out on curls and swirls of steam from the food stalls. I remembered that I had been up all night and for most of that time full of anxiety, mainly for Hrype but also for Gewis and, of course, for my poor friend Sibert. I was, I realized, aching with hunger.

We bought fresh bread, delicious little patties made of spiced, ground pork bound with egg, honey-apple sweet cakes, all washed down with ale. It was a better breakfast than I had enjoyed in a long time — certainly a more costly one — and I wolfed down the food quite undeterred by Rollo’s amused presence beside me. When we had finished we found a quiet corner beneath the abbey walls and stood side by side, our hands linked, both of us lost in our thoughts.

Eventually, he said, ‘I must go, Lassair. I am here to do a job, and I am answerable to those who sent me.’

I thought I knew what he meant. He was a Norman — or, at any rate, he supported their rule. I guessed that somehow word of this threat posed by the House of Wessex had reached the ears of the king’s advisers and they had dispatched Rollo to come to Ely and find out if it was true, if it really was a threat and, if so, what should be done about it. The obvious conclusion was that Rollo had orders quietly to remove Gewis if he endangered the king, but I baulked at thinking about that.

‘You must tell them that Gewis presents no danger,’ I said, keeping my voice low. ‘He doesn’t. I give you my word.’

He smiled, as well he might. ‘You do, do you? I’ll remember to tell King William. I’m sure he’ll believe you.’

I thought he was joking and I laughed. ‘Seriously, he’s the last person to lead men in a rebellion.’ Something occurred to me. ‘Are you absolutely sure he is who you all think he is? It’s not very likely, surely, that the House of Wessex survives only in a tiny cottage in a forgotten village in the fens?’

He acknowledged that with a wry grin. ‘It’s not likely, no, but I am assured by those who make it their business to know such things that it is true.’ Suddenly, he looked surprised, his eyes wide, as if something had just struck him. But before I could ask, he went on, ‘As to his being the only surviving person of the Wessex blood, there is another, but he has abandoned the ties of kinship and thrown in his lot with the Normans.’

I barely heard that. I was still wondering what he had thought of that had so taken him aback.

‘We must-’ I began, but he put his lips to mine, very gently, and I was temporarily silenced.

‘Stay here,’ he said, and there was a new urgency in his voice. ‘You have a place where you are lodging?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Go back there,’ he urged. ‘Keep out of sight. Don’t venture out, and certainly not by yourself.’

‘Why?’ His alarm was infectious and I was afraid. ‘Why is it dangerous all of a sudden?’

His face twisted. ‘It has always been dangerous, for so much is at stake.’ He looked me full in the eyes. ‘The difference is that now there is you.’

I didn’t know what to say. My heart was singing he cares about me! but the image of myself meekly waiting in the little room while some looming, unspecified and highly dangerous threat rose up to shadow me and pounce on me was not one I could readily believe in.

‘Where are you going?’ I whispered. He was holding me close against his chest, and I could feel his heart thumping.

He hugged me. ‘To make it safe.’

‘How? What are you going to do?’ Now it was I who feared for him. Other than the barest of facts, I had no idea who he was or what it was he did but I knew in my bones that it was dangerous.

‘Don’t worry.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of my head. ‘I’ve outwitted better enemies than these.’

He sounded strong and confident, sure of himself and what he was about to do. Why, then, did I feel so fearful? Why, when I looked up at him, did it seem as if a cloud had just obscured the sun?

Gently, he unwound my arms from around his neck, and he took a step back. Away from me. He raised a hand in farewell, and then he turned and hurried off. Although I stared after him, and tried as hard as I could to keep him in sight, within a couple of heartbeats he had melted into the crowd.

I wondered if I would ever see him again.